ron paul is a cockblock
Aug. 4th, 2013 05:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
whatimproprietywho: karson and avery
what: getting cockblocked by ron paul
rating: T
warnings: language, making fun of triggers, discussion of ron paul.
Their faces are a scant two inches away from each other, and his hands are settled (nervously) on the kind of weirdly flat planes of her... waist, he guesses; she’s kind of the exact proportions of a two-by-four, so it’s kind of straight all the way up.
Anyway. His hands are somewhere above the miniscule swell of her hips and he’s about to have a panic attack from how red his cheeks probably are, but she’s in his lap and he guesses that she’s going to kiss him now.
Except that she doesn’t.
“Okay, I just.” Avery pulls away a little, her nose wrinkling, and Karson’s brow furrows, offense already coiling fresh and hot in his stomach, preparatory. He waits for the no-doubt mood-ruining, unromantic, idiotic thing she’s about to say, watching her warily as she folds her arms across her chest and hunches her shoulders. “I can’t do this until you take that fucking shirt off.”
He looks down, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening in his confusion. The back of his shirt proudly bears “Ron Paul 2016,” as usual, as it should be, but the front, well...
It’s a portrait of Ron Paul in art nouveau, highlighted by the colours of the American flag, which spreads proudly across the background behind him. The white parts glitter. He got it at an art fair for twenty dollars, hand painted, and even if he could have bought at least fifteen cupcakes and a pizza with that, this masterpiece was worth the cost. It was obviously meant as a joke, the charlatans, but Karson liberated it. This shirt is a piece of artwork, a testament to their great nation, and his wearing it is not merely the typical, tedious act of bearing clothing: it is performance art; a proud declaration of Ron Paul and hope.
Like fuck he’s taking it off.
“Fuck you,” he responds. “If you can’t accept the shirt you are obviously rejecting me as a person. I’m not going to change for you, bitch. Stop trying to control me.”
Avery rolls her eyes. “You’re making me uncomfortable,” Karson informs her, removing his hands from her washboard-like torso.
“Yeah, okay,” she says, “but when are you not uncomfortable? In any case, your fucking abomination of a rag is making me uncomfortable. If you continue to wear it I’m seriously going to have to count that as sexual harassment because, seriously, just. Why.”
“Because it’s amazing and gorgeous and if you don’t respect Ron Paul then you don’t deserve either of our affections!”
“Okay, I think my nipples literally just retreated into my body from horror at that sentence that you just said.”
“That’s gross. I’m really uncomfortable now. You’re starting to trigger me.”
“Oh, fuck your triggers. You could get triggered by your dog pissing on a bush wrong.”
“Don’t bring Crab into this!”
“I’ll stop bringing your shitty dog into this when you take off that stupid shirt.”
And with that, Karson shoves her off his lap. While she’s gasping a little from being pushed directly in the stomach he gets up and storms off, proceeding to lock himself in the bathroom and cry angrily for the next ten minutes.
They never actually get around to kissing.
what: getting cockblocked by ron paul
rating: T
warnings: language, making fun of triggers, discussion of ron paul.
Their faces are a scant two inches away from each other, and his hands are settled (nervously) on the kind of weirdly flat planes of her... waist, he guesses; she’s kind of the exact proportions of a two-by-four, so it’s kind of straight all the way up.
Anyway. His hands are somewhere above the miniscule swell of her hips and he’s about to have a panic attack from how red his cheeks probably are, but she’s in his lap and he guesses that she’s going to kiss him now.
Except that she doesn’t.
“Okay, I just.” Avery pulls away a little, her nose wrinkling, and Karson’s brow furrows, offense already coiling fresh and hot in his stomach, preparatory. He waits for the no-doubt mood-ruining, unromantic, idiotic thing she’s about to say, watching her warily as she folds her arms across her chest and hunches her shoulders. “I can’t do this until you take that fucking shirt off.”
He looks down, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening in his confusion. The back of his shirt proudly bears “Ron Paul 2016,” as usual, as it should be, but the front, well...
It’s a portrait of Ron Paul in art nouveau, highlighted by the colours of the American flag, which spreads proudly across the background behind him. The white parts glitter. He got it at an art fair for twenty dollars, hand painted, and even if he could have bought at least fifteen cupcakes and a pizza with that, this masterpiece was worth the cost. It was obviously meant as a joke, the charlatans, but Karson liberated it. This shirt is a piece of artwork, a testament to their great nation, and his wearing it is not merely the typical, tedious act of bearing clothing: it is performance art; a proud declaration of Ron Paul and hope.
Like fuck he’s taking it off.
“Fuck you,” he responds. “If you can’t accept the shirt you are obviously rejecting me as a person. I’m not going to change for you, bitch. Stop trying to control me.”
Avery rolls her eyes. “You’re making me uncomfortable,” Karson informs her, removing his hands from her washboard-like torso.
“Yeah, okay,” she says, “but when are you not uncomfortable? In any case, your fucking abomination of a rag is making me uncomfortable. If you continue to wear it I’m seriously going to have to count that as sexual harassment because, seriously, just. Why.”
“Because it’s amazing and gorgeous and if you don’t respect Ron Paul then you don’t deserve either of our affections!”
“Okay, I think my nipples literally just retreated into my body from horror at that sentence that you just said.”
“That’s gross. I’m really uncomfortable now. You’re starting to trigger me.”
“Oh, fuck your triggers. You could get triggered by your dog pissing on a bush wrong.”
“Don’t bring Crab into this!”
“I’ll stop bringing your shitty dog into this when you take off that stupid shirt.”
And with that, Karson shoves her off his lap. While she’s gasping a little from being pushed directly in the stomach he gets up and storms off, proceeding to lock himself in the bathroom and cry angrily for the next ten minutes.
They never actually get around to kissing.
